


The Floor

by DJ_unicornsrgr8



Series: Barry Fics [3]
Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Confusion, Dehydration, Dissociation, Fuches cares about Barry but is also a dick, Gen, Inability to function, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:20:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJ_unicornsrgr8/pseuds/DJ_unicornsrgr8
Summary: The annoyance on Fuches’ face shifted to something softer. “Barry, buddy, it’s Friday evening.”“’S Thursday,” Barry said. “Got back today.”“No, it’s Friday. You got back yesterday.”“No I didn’t.”“Oh boy. Okay. Shit."Barry loses some time when he gets home from a hit, and Fuches finds him on the floor in the kitchen.
Relationships: Barry Berkman & Monroe Fuches
Series: Barry Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814806
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	The Floor

Barry trudged up the stairs to his apartment, his feet feeling heavier with each step. He fumbled for his keys; they slipped from his numb fingers several times before he managed to unlock the door. He stumbled inside, dropping his bag and keys on the floor and flipping the deadbolt with the last of the fumes in his tank. His knees wobbled, then gave out, and he sank to the cracked tile of his kitchen. His head spun, the world going blurry. The cabinets in front of him warped in his distorted vision, rolling like the stormy ocean. His heart thrummed anxiously as he watched them, spellbound.

His phone rang in his pocket, jolting him from his trance. His vision settled, but his arms refused to cooperate in retrieving the device. After a couple more halfhearted attempts, he closed his eyes and resigned himself to waiting. His temples throbbed. When the ringing stopped, he counted three beats of silence before it started up again. It was Fuches, then. He’d be pissed that Barry wasn’t answering, but his energy was gone. Fuches would have to fucking deal with it.

The phone stopped ringing for a second time, then started again immediately. The cycle continued until the phone stopped mid-ring, finally dead. Barry exhaled in relief as the thrumming in his temples began to recede. He let his head fall back against the cabinets with a thunk. His stomach grumbled in protest that he hadn’t eaten yet, but he was too drained to move. The idea of shifting to the side, grabbing the handle, and opening the fridge felt like Everest. He’d just wait. 

After a few hours, maybe, he heard the echo of footsteps in the hall; the footsteps grew louder and louder until they stopped outside his door. The handle jiggled, but the deadbolt held fast. There was a sharp, impatient knock.

“Barry, open up!”

Barry exhaled, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Barry!”

An odd sense of déjà vu washed over him; for a moment, the cracked tiles of his kitchen morphed into those of a dingy motel bathroom. He felt the ghost of hands on his wrists and a soft, accented voice curling around his ears. But Fuches’ insistent pounding on the door broke through the haze, and his eyes fluttered open.

He let out another long sigh. The door was just a few feet away. He could nudge the bottom of it with his foot if he wanted to. He gritted his teeth, rousing himself, then pitched himself forward, flipping the deadbolt with rubber fingers and falling back against the cabinets with a thud. Fuches threw the door open; he stuck out an accusatory finger at eye level and inhaled as if to shout, but he dropped it as his gaze found Barry on the floor.

He shook his head. “Jesus. This again. Get up.”

Barry just blinked at him.

“C’mon. Up.”

Barry swallowed, his throat woolly. “Can’t.”

Fuches threw his hands up. “Why not.”

Barry tried to shrug, but his shoulders didn’t move. For a moment, he thought Fuches would blow, but he just turned and swung the door shut. It rattled a bit in its frame. Barry closed his eyes.

“Give me your keys,” Fuches finally said.

“Thernthflr,” Barry mumbled.

Fuches tapped Barry’s ankle with the toe of his unscuffed boot. “What?”

“Floor.”

There was a grunt, then a jingle as Fuches scooped the keys up.

“I’m going to make copies of these. Because I don’t wanna end up breaking down the door if you’re gonna keep doing this.”

Barry made a faint sound of acknowledgement. Fuches didn’t say anything, but Barry could feel his disdain radiating before the door creaked open and slammed shut. Heavy footsteps receded down the hall, and everything was quiet, aside from the sound of water running through the pipes to his neighbor’s shower and the occasional hint of music from somewhere faraway.

It wasn’t as long this time before the door opened again, and Fuches stepped over the threshold. Barry cracked his eyes open to peer up at him. He dropped Barry’s keys on the counter, waving a shiny new set in Barry’s face before pocketing it. Barry blinked slowly. 

Fuches sighed. “How long have you been down there?”

“Sin’… Uh. Since I got back.”

“Since you got back from… where? The store?”

Barry furrowed his brow. “Airport?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You flew in yesterday morning.”

“No. Flew in this morning.”

The annoyance on Fuches’ face shifted to something softer. “Barry, buddy, it’s Friday evening.”

“’S Thursday,” Barry said. “Got back today.”

“No, it’s Friday. You got back yesterday.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Oh boy. Okay. Shit. When was the last time you ate?”

“Uh… Dinner. Yes’rday.”

“Yesterday, as in Thursday?”

Barry frowned. “Tha’s today.”

“No, it’s… Okay, y’know what, sure. So you ate dinner yesterday, as in Wednesday?”

“Yeah.”

“And have you had anything to drink since then?”

“Water.”

“Okay, when?”

“This morning.”

“You had water this morning, as in Thursday morning.”

Barry glared up at Fuches. “Yes. S’ fuckin’ Thursday.”

Fuches held his hands up placatingly. “Okay, okay. Jesus. There’s something wrong with you. I don’t even… I guess we can start with water? Hang on.”

Fuches reached up and pulled a glass from the cabinet above the sink, filling it from the tap and crouching down beside Barry.

“Here.”

He placed the glass in Barry’s hands, which were too limp to grab it. Water spilled all across his lap, and the glass rolled to the floor with a thunk. Fuches stared at him.

“Jesus Christ, Barry.”

“Sorry,” Barry mumbled.

Fuches shook his head, grabbing the glass, wiping the rim with his sleeve, and refilling it. He held it up to Barry’s lips, tilting it slowly as Barry took sip after small sip. Once the glass was drained, he set it in the sink and turned to rummage through the fridge.

“Why the fuck do you refrigerate your peanut butter?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Where’s your bread?”

Barry closed his eyes. “Freezer.”

“What the fuck. Yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with you.”

The freezer opened and closed, and the escaped air sank down to Barry’s level on the floor. He shivered, his teeth clattering together.

“‘m I dying?” he asked faintly.

“What? No. Don’t be an idiot.”

“Feels like it.”

There was a thud that sounded like a hand hitting the counter. “That’s because it’s Friday, Barry. It sounds to me like you haven’t eaten in two goddamn days, and you haven’t had water or pissed since yesterday morning. So I’m making you a sandwich, and you’re going to eat it, and then go to the bathroom, and then go the fuck to bed.”

“S’ Friday?”

“Oh my god. Yes, it’s Friday. I’ve said that like twenty fuckin’ times.”

“But…”

“Barry, just shut up.” 

The silverware drawer rattled, and a plate clanked as it met the counter. The toaster popped. Barry slumped sideways; the back of his shirt caught in the door of one of the cabinets, keeping him from sliding the rest of the way to the floor.

“Christ,” Fuches muttered. “You’re like a bad game of Sims.”

The words felt like water in Barry’s ears. He tried to shake his head to clear them, but he couldn’t move his neck.

“C’mon, sit up,” Fuches said, pushing Barry upright. “Here. Eat this.”

Bread touched his lips and he took a bite of the sandwich. Chewing took effort; his jaw began to ache after a few bites, but the pangs in his stomach prompted him to get through the sandwich.

“You good?” Fuches asked.

“Uh.” Barry cleared his throat. “C’n I have more water?”

The tap ran for a few moments before Fuches held the glass out for Barry to drink. Some of the water ran down from the sides of his mouth, soaking into his shirt, but he kept drinking until the glass was empty. 

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Now get up.”

Barry looked up at Fuches with a raised eyebrow.

Fuches let out a sigh. “C’mon, I’ll help you.”

He crouched down with a grunt and grabbed Barry under his arms. “Ready? On three. One… Two… Three!”

He stood and dragged Barry up with him, stumbling back as Barry pitched into him on unsteady legs.

“Woah, hey!”

“Sorry,” Barry mumbled, swaying a bit.

“Bathroom. Let’s go.” He took Barry’s floppy arm and draped it over his shoulders, leading him slowly across the apartment. “You’re gonna have to do this part yourself, buddy.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. So go take a piss and don’t brain yourself on the bathtub.”

Fuches sent Barry into the bathroom with a little push between his shoulderblades and closed the door behind him. Barry’s temples throbbed; his vision was grayish, but not black. He braced himself with one hand on the edge of the sink as he did his business. Outside, he could hear Fuches rummaging around the bedroom. He flushed the toilet, and the bathroom door swung open after a few beats.

“Still alive?”

Barry made a sound of assent.

“Attaboy. C’mon, bed.” 

Fuches let Barry lean on him for the five steps it took to reach the bed. Barry collapsed into it, and Fuches pulled the covers over him.

“Get some sleep,” Fuches said. “I’ll be back tomorrow. You’d better not still be like this, ‘cause we’ve gotta talk.”

Barry was vaguely aware of Fuches saying something else, but his brain didn’t process it. His eyes fluttered, and as soon as they fell shut, he was out.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this -- I enjoyed writing it! Any feedback would be much appreciated :)
> 
> 1\. The déjà vu he feels on the floor is a callback to the first fic in this series, in the bathroom with Hank. Also, I'm aware that spelling déjà vu with the accent marks makes me look pretentious, but the French half of me can't stand writing it the English way lol...
> 
> 2\. I, personally, refrigerate my peanut butter and freeze my bread because I don't go through it fast enough to eat it all before it goes bad. My friends, however, say that I'm a weirdo... Feel free to let me know where you are in this pressing debate.
> 
> 3\. High five to whoever spots the Bo Burnham reference!


End file.
